


Worth So Much More

by falling_awake



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, i have a lot of durin family feelings, im really sorry for this guys, ive been working on this for months but never finished it, so not a fix it, sorry mama dis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falling_awake/pseuds/falling_awake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's far too late by the time she reaches Erebor, leaves turning gold in some mockery of what they've gained. Of what she's lost. Its been months since that ill fated raven had reached her, letter bound and silent like death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Worth So Much More

It's far too late by the time she reaches Erebor, leaves turning gold in some mockery of what they've gained. Of what she's lost. Its been months since that ill fated raven had reached her, letter bound and silent like death.

(Sometimes she wants to laugh over that, how she should have known from the silent black beak of that loathsome creature.)

Dis doesn't remember much of that moment, just the sick sudden ache in her chest as if someone had peeled back her skin and cracked rib and sternum to scoop the tender flesh of her heart from it's cavity. She'd felt loss before, the thick sickly thing that had her feeling hollow and desolate.

This is more than that.

This is the ache of being all that's left in the world, of having sat back and waited with bated breath like the damsel she wasn't and hadn't ever had the fortune of being. She wants to rage and scream and tear her braids from her hair, shear her beard till there was nothing more than the stubble that darkened her youngest's cheeks.

("It gets in the way of my bow, Ma, once we reclaim Erebor maybe I'll grow it out just as yours" Kili had laughed, self conscious as he'd rubbed a stubbled cheek against her finely bearded one)

(She'd never get to weave beads in his beard now, shining silver things to glint against the dark of his hair and match the brother by his side.)

Sometimes she thinks she’d known, all those months ago when her two boys had kissed her cheeks and squeezed her hands between theirs. They’d turned and walked away in unison, shoulders bumping together but their gait strong. Yes, she’d known then as she’d watched them leave and the mixing meld of dark and light around their shoulders had reminded her of another pair of brothers who returned one short and the other never the same.

She’d stood there as regal as she could, knees locked so her legs wouldn't buckle under her as her boys left and her heart beat cold beneath her breast. 

(Frerin had only been 48 when he’d died, far too young and golden to be at Azanulbizar, far too brash to be anywhere but. Dis can’t help but compare.)

But there’s so much to do in Thorin’s absence, so many people to take care of and the winter was _harsh_ that year, bellies aching in a way that reminded her with cold horror of the days of wandering the land with no mountain but a stolen one at their backs and no home waiting for them. She’d been but a child at the time, clutching her mother’s ruined skirts in one hand and holding Frerin’s still tiny one in the other. 

Fili had had small hands like that once upon a time, and large eyes that hadn’t watered as she’d told him his father wasn’t coming home. He’d held her then, a young dwarvling without even ten winters notched into his belt, and she had wept into golden hair so much like her husband’s and so like Frerin’s. It had been a fervent prayer then, a whispered plea of _please, Mahal, please don’t take my boys from me_ but gods are fickle things and fate even more so.

_They were so young and still they were taken from me_. 

It’s with these thoughts in mind that she had fallen to her knees, weeping into forge-worn hands, as Dis realized she was quite suddenly alone in the world.

The journey from Ered Luin to Erebor hadn't prepared her for the truth of it, in the end. Erebor is cold, colder than she remembers when hazy childhood memories painted rosy colored portraits of loud markets and softly whispering pools of underground waters and waterfalls, of the warmth of her mother’s embrace and the laughter of her father as he tossed her above head and caught her, shrieking in joy, in sure arms. Those memories had been scarred by dragonflame, by the char of her dead people and the loss of a mountain that would shadow them all for nearly two centuries, long enough for her to bear two children and short enough for them to die in the shadow of a mountain they had scarcely reclaimed. 

Now, now her memories of the mountain are chilled with even more death and the knowledge that everything she’s loved she’s lost and in the end, the only thing she’s gained is the chill of riches. 

It’s not worth it, never will be, and a large part of Dis hates this mountain, hates Thorin for being unable to give up on the shadow of what they once had and what she barely remembers. But he is dead and comforted with the arms of their entire family in the halls of Mandos and she is still here, guiding and watching and breathing until one day she can greet her boys with a swat to the back of their heads and a kiss to their cheeks. Something tells her it will be a long path, a long trek without her boys beside her and her brother forging the way as he was wont to do. 

Here, she presses one hand each to the twinned names etched onto the tomb before her, traces runes and leans down to press a kiss to each, murmuring one last time their true names to the stone they were not born knowing but have been interred with. _Oh_ , her boys, this wasn’t what she’d ever wanted for them, wasn’t what she’d ever wanted for herself and it hurts more than she ever thought something could hurt. It’s a dull throbbing pain, permeating into every bone and every blood vessel, singing her sorrow through her veins until all Dis’ ears hear are the wail of a mother’s lament.

It feels very much like she’s leaving behind her heart when she finally gets to her feet and strokes the stone tomb one last time, grateful at least that her children _have_ a tomb. 

_Unlike Frerin_ , an ugly part of her mind whispers, but Dis has had decades to push that aside, and it is with a steady hand that she moves and traces her brother’s name. Here too she whispers her love and remembers a cheeky young dwarrow with much too much pride and far too little humbleness. She remembers a young child grown up to be a man and the tense line of his shoulders as he came home bearing their grandfather’s crown in one hand and their fallen brother’s blade in the other as he offered them to her in apology and guilt.

She’d forgiven him then, still loved him even if he was not ever the same person she’d known her whole life.

But Thorin had stepped up and taken on a mantle of King when he knew his people were broken and destitute and anything less would have sent them spiralling and crashing. He had been strong of will and befitting of their line, how could she dishonour him and what he died for by weeping and losing herself?  
So though the empty space beneath her ribs aches, Dis brushes tears from her eyes, steels her spine and straightens her shoulders.

She’s a descendant of Durin too, just as proud and just as strong, if not stronger for what she’s endured, and Dis will not let herself be replaced from what was hers by birth. She’s honored mother and forge provider, skilled with metalwork and knowing flame and she has triumphed over the losses of her people and flourished despite it all.

_She will live_.

**Author's Note:**

> Wowzers, so I've definitely been working on this little thing for months but it finally took the prompt of [this](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/8478.html?thread=17979678#t17979678) to get myself in gear, whew. 
> 
> Not necessarily a fill, but relevant enough to be linked I think. Anyway, I'm outie, adios y'all, hope you enjoyed it!


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